The Adventure Of A Turned-Off Sherlock Holmes
by DREAMIRIS
Summary: Sometimes the best of intentions don't work their magic. *Or, in which John follows the advice of a website to rekindle the spark in his ten-year old marriage with Sherlock* My take on one of the most loved ACD stories.
1. Chapter 1

**The said advice in the summary basically is for het couples, copied from WikiHow's 'How To Seduce A Man'. While I'm not the expert and I really. . . well, let's just say they could be an awful turn-off if done wrong, and while the advice is for women. . . ah, dang it, just read it.**

 **Yes, there's an ACD case fic but I didn't tag which one because it would be spoiler-y, so. . . .**

 **Warning: Lots of old married bickering couple scenes and general "mis-duction" silliness ;)**

 **And yeah, they're married. I love married Johnlock, they're just so cute and silly . . . .**

* * *

 **Chapter One**

"Oh God, what now?"

John sighed when Sherlock rolled over, and without any warning, started to put his pants back on. For the fifth time in eight days. John simply stared at him with disbelief. Had he known this, he'd rather have skipped with the foreplay.

"I—I just remembered," Sherlock seemed rather distracted, and not even half as horny as he had been a moment ago, "the cultures in the fridge need tending."

 _Again. Calm down,_ John told himself. _It's Sherlock, this is going to happen. This was inevitable. It's okay._

 _No, it's not okay!_ his lizard brain screamed. _And certainly not during sex_.

John chuckled entirely without humour, "Sherlock, we were having sex!"

"About to," Sherlock zipped himself and gave him a droll look, "what else did you think we were doing?"

And with that, he rushed out of the room, leaving a naked and irritated John tangled in covers, determined to put an end to Sherlock's complacency.

* * *

"John!"

The tone was obvious. It was John's turn to examine the body. Lestrade gave him his blessing, as always, and he squatted down near the corpse, putting on his gloves.

The case, as Sherlock had ranked it, was barely six, but the three consecutive deaths had caused a huge pressure on Scotland Yard, and, by extension, on Lestrade, and hence on Sherlock. And that, combined with the lack of decent cases, had prompted Sherlock out to examine the last body they had found. The first three of them looked like straightforward murders, but since their visit to the fourth body, which was the previous one, Sherlock had begun to suspect something else.

And that suspicion proved legitimate when they discovered an inscription in blood near the body they were now examining.

 _Back off, Holmes_

"Killer's trying to send a message?" John asked quietly, peering at the splotchy pink flesh of the old man.

"Trying without much success."

John bent down and examined the bullet wound.

"Shotgun wound. . . Wasn't he found with a pistol?"

"Yes. No shotgun in the house," Sherlock informed him, "However, the family is American."

"Huh."

"The killer was exceptionally stupid. Tried to make this look like a suicide."

John peered closely. There was. . .

"Gunpowder on his fingers, hand."

"Too much for a single shot."

"Someone deliberately put them there, to fake it."

"Exactly. And give me someone in history who was this short and committed suicide by blowing his own brains off with a shotgun. Idiot."

They broke into giggles, and then John restrained himself, "Shush! Crime scene."

"So you always say."

"Killer was his height, perhaps even taller," John exclaimed, "The bullet's path gives us that."

"Hmm."

"Rashes on hand, mouth, nose, scalp," John peered closely, covering his nose, "Never seen this kind, looks like. . ."

"Smallpox," Sherlock interjected, "But it's highly improbable. It's been completely eradicated, unless. . ."

"Someone's brewing cultures," John finished.

"The virus exists only in vaccines, in weakened form. In select labs, and I doubt there are any in England."

They both looked back towards the message in blood. John felt an irrational sense of foreboding. He glanced at Sherlock, who was deep in thought, but chose not to say anything. They were both used to death threats.

"Are you sure it's smallpox?" Sherlock's tone was suspicious, "Because even if it were, almost everyone in the Western world is immune to smallpox."

"Can't say," John rose, "Autopsy should tell us."

Sherlock rose too, and nodded, "I'll tell Molly what to look for. Lestrade!"

Lestrade promptly strode in.

"Identity?"

"Alejandro Sanchez, of the—"

"Sanchez crime family," Sherlock finished, "Miami, Florida. Now we're getting somewhere. Any relation with the last body we found?"

"We're still looking."

"Don't just look, find it!"

John frowned at Sherlock's knowledge, "Old friend of yours?"

"Somewhat. Mrs. Hudson's late husband used to work under them."

John looked back towards the message, "You don't suppose they're—?"

"No. I actually did them a favour by taking out Frank. He was taking away a big chunk of their income by blackmail. They even gave me a one-way ticket back to England."

"So why would they threaten you?"

Sherlock smirked, "Like I said, they are phenomenally stupid."

* * *

 _Next evening:_

"Um. . . hello?"

The receptionist almost jumped in her chair as John approached her from behind. He caught one glance of the screen before she minimised it: _How To Seduce A Man_.

 _Yeah right_ , John thought, _as if a website would tell 'em how._

"Yes, Dr. Watson?" she brushed her hair back, trying to not look flustered, "How can I help you?"

"I'm. . . uh," John glanced at the screen again, "done for the day. Has Dr. Wilkins arrived yet?"

"Yes, but he's, er, in a meeting. He'll be two hours, at the least."

"Oh well, could you tell him that, um, I. . . never mind. I think I'll talk to him in person."

The receptionist blinked, "Oh, okay. Good evening, Dr. Watson."

John smiled and turned to walk away before he realised what she said. He stopped and slowly turned to look at the woman who had never even smiled at him in the past, "Pardon?"

She grinned extra sweetly, with just a hint of helplessness in her eyes, "I said good evening, Dr. Watson."

John smirked, "Oh. Right."

* * *

 _A week later_ :

John snuck out of their bedroom towards the laptop. He had been thinking about it throughout that whole evening, throughout the half-dinner with Sherlock and the frustrated violin screeching thereafter.

After all these years of married life, he needed advice. Anonymous advice. Not from people he knew, of course not. It had not been easy, taking this step. It had taken him a week to swallow his pride and trust another's discretion. But he was tired. Tired without intimacy with Sherlock. Tired of initiating all the time and then being cast aside in favour of an experiment or an ill-timed suspect.

Sherlock had been his same self throughout, since the beginning of the days, but he had never ignored sex for an experiment. Therefore, it was only logical that John had to be the one making some mistake. After all, Sherlock was just reacting to what he was doing.

And John dreaded the fact that he wasn't able to keep Sherlock happy anymore.

So he stealthily went into the living room, knowing how light Sherlock's sleep was, and took a deep, deep breath before typing into Google:

 _how to seduce a man_

Results: heterosexual

John tried one more time.

 _how to seduce a man gay_

John scratched his head. It was all about picking guys up at bars. No relationship advice.

He tried one more time.

 _how to seduce husband gay_

Even more unhelpful. All about what to do during sex, all about whatever John always did.

He went back to het results. After all, straight or otherwise, a man was a man, right? Even if that thought didn't ring right in John's head.

 _how to seduce a man_

Full of relationship advice. Chock-a-block.

Lingerie, no-no. Sneak peek, did not work anymore. Messages in the shower, no such arrangement in the bathroom. I-Never games, bad memories. . .

And. . . there. There was the page John had been looking for. The one that receptionist had been checking out.

It did sound more mature than the Victoria's Secret stuff he had been looking at till now.

"Hypocrite."

John jumped in his chair, much like his receptionist had when he had caught her, "Pardon?"

"You always tell me to get my "beauty sleep", and there you are, sneaking around the place at night!" Sherlock exclaimed, irritated, "Now, if you're watching porn, could you please do it a little more quietly?"

"I'm not watching porn."

Sherlock let out a yawn, "Then make me some coffee too if you're not doing anything important. You've ruined my sleep."

"Help yourself!"

"I just got up. I'm still sleepy."

"You said you were awake because _I_ had ruined _your_ sleep."

"Yes, and that's why I'd better work."

John gave him a droll stare, "I'm not your housekeeper."

Sherlock looked at him, "Don't say that, John. You know those words are cursed."

John shut his laptop indignantly, fighting the impulse to give his extremely attractive and high maintenance husband a kiss as always, "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Coffee?"

* * *

 _Another week later:_

"Lestrade called. You weren't picking up."

"Hmm."

John looked at Sherlock's phone. It was alit, buzzing, and yet there was no response on Sherlock's part. John decided to simply break the news.

"I stopped by Bart's today. Met Molly."

"Huh."

"She said she couldn't identify the rashes, or the microbes causing it. That they're of an unknown _genus._ "

That caused Sherlock to tense up. He blinked, and then looked away from the microscope, "That's funny. Neither have I."

"Those are in there?" John pointed at the microscope.

"Yep. I got them from the kitchens of their houses."

"Those. . . _germs,_ they're now in. . . our house?"

"Yes."

He pursed his lips, and looked down, waiting for Sherlock to tell him more, but Sherlock did no such thing.

"Okay, so what are you going to do about the case if this turns out positive?"

"I've written up the details for you on the wall. Go check it out."

The wall over the sofa was almost always filled with post-its and photos and conclusions during cases that were puzzling to Sherlock. John peered closely. Age had rendered his eyesight too unreliable.

 _Victim #1: Sofia Cortes: Alejandro's illegitimate daughter_ followed by age, pictures of the crime scene, last seen and friends.

 _Victim #2: Mercedes Sanchez: heiress to Forelli family estate_ followed by age, pictures of the crime scene, last seen and friends.

 _Victim #3: Anna Gordon: drug lord, busted drug deal b/w Forelli's & the Sanchez's _followed by age, pictures of the crime scene, last seen and friends.

 _Victim #4: Jane Doe Elena Smith: role unknown,_ followed by age, pictures of the crime scene and friends

 _Victim #5: Alejandro Sanchez: brother to Tito Sanchez, the head of Sanchez crime family, half-brother to Mercedes_ followed by age, pictures of the crime scene, last seen and friends

"You said," John began, "that they were American citizens."

Sherlock smirked, "And origin. Anna and Elena, on the other hand, are both English. Anna's citizenship, however, is debatable."

"Huh," John exclaimed, "Strange that Sofia, Mercedes, Alejandro and Tito, they all had to change continents only for most of them to get killed at the end."

The smirk grew, and John knew he was getting somewhere. Sherlock always had this smile when John would be beginning to catch up with his reasoning, "Yes."

John looked back at Sherlock's notes of the case. Sherlock never really needed notes; but as of late, they were usually for John to follow through and, as Sherlock politely put it, 'for John to offer insight'. John tried to offer some, as he was trying now, but most of his own observations did never contribute much to Sherlock's conclusions. Were all these people on a run? But they were killed by people close to them.

John gave up.

"So, no longer a six, is it?"

Sherlock deflated, "At least an eight. What do you see common in the photos?"

It dawned on John, "They have those rashes. All of them. In almost the same places. Hands and mouth."

"Exactly," Sherlock rose from his seat and went and stood next to John, "All of them, every single have the most concentration of rashes on the hands, near the fingers that is, and in their mouths. There were a few on other parts of their body, but hands and mouth were most infected. Why? Obviously, one eats with their hands, and the food goes into the mouth. Other parts of the bodies were probably infected by scratching, etc. So I took food samples from all their kitchens. That's what's in here," he pointed towards the microscope.

"Hence the food could be source of infection, and the hands must have propagated the microbes," John nodded, "Fits well enough, but. . ."

"But their murders were done in different ways," Sherlock completed, "Anna was killed by a blow to her head, Mercedes was shot in the head, Sofia was drowned, and then all their faces were disfigured. Elena was stabbed in the lung. Alejandro was killed using a shotgun. With the first four victims as women, I thought it was the work of a serial killer who did not mind getting creative. But the odd thing is, each body has a different killer. There appears to be no single serial killer."

"Lestrade said that the killers had all confessed."

"Yes."

"Then the case is closed."

"Hardly. Alejandro was killed by his own mother. Sofia and Anna were both killed by their boyfriends. Mercedes was killed by her uncle, which is strange because she was the only heiress of the Forelli family. Everyone was killed by someone they lived with, someone they were close to, even if they had big shot enemies. All of them, except for Elena."

"Okay. Who killed Elena?"

Sherlock's upper lip twitched, as if the question was causing him huge discomfort, "I don't know. But one thing is clear. All of them are somehow related to the Sanchez family."

"So someone's basically hunting the Sanchez family down. That means," John looked back to the post-it near Alejandro's photo, "this guy, Tito, he's in danger."

"He is."

"But you just said that. . ."

"Alejandro's mother killed her own son. Yes, I did," Sherlock exhaled heavily and sat down on the table, "that complicates matters. That means Tito must be safe. Since there's nobody else he's close to."

He showed John his phone, "Just because I haven't been responding to Lestrade's texts doesn't mean that I haven't been reading them."

John folded his arms, "Oh, of course, what else could it possibly mean!"

Sherlock ignored the sarcasm, "They found the shotgun, confirmed ballistics, the mother's fingerprints. But there's something I can't figure out. What is it? WHAT IS IT?!"

John was, by now, used to his husband's sudden outbursts over the years, "So, what are you going to do?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Elena is my only hope."

"You know nothing about her."

"Precisely. At least I can hope that she'll tell me something that I don't already know. I've got my people out. Until then, I can do nothing."

"So. . . you'll just stay up all night. Or are you in the mood for something else?" John asked suggestively.

"I'll eat."

John was taken aback. That was the last thing he had expected to hear. Sherlock was always so overly understanding when it came to sexual innuendos. And besides, it had been twenty five days since they last had sex. That in itself was a record.

"You've been eating. You've got. . . caramel in your teeth."

"I'm hungry."

"You had lunch. And biscuits while tea."

"And I'm still hungry. Strange, isn't it?"

"You're just getting old."

"I wouldn't say that."

John chuckled, and gave Sherlock a peck on his cheek, "Dinner?"

"Starving."

* * *

 _The next night:_

"It's very weird."

Sherlock, reading beside him in the bed, did not respond.

"Do you know how long it has been since we last had sex?"

"Remind me."

John felt stupid for being the only one to take this seriously, "Twenty six days today."

Sherlock seemed interested, even a bit shocked, "That long?"

"Yup."

"Huh. We'll do it one of these days again."

John looked at him disbelievingly, " _One of these days_? You used to want to fuck before 'sex' was even out of my mouth!"

"I'm not the sex maniac you portray me to be."

"Yes you are."

Sherlock put down his book and smiled at John. And then leaned in and gave him a long, deep kiss, "I still love you, sex or not."

John kissed him back, "And I love you, old or not."

"Don't you call me old, John Watson!"

John laughed and kissed him on the forehead, "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Time to use the advice, then.

* * *

 **Oh yeah... The "silly mis-duction" is next chapter onwards...**

 **Managed to guess which ACD story this could be? (Hint: it's in the names)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A bit of angst, a bit of silliness, and everything Sherlock.**

 **Oh, and murder. Refined, cold-blooded murder**

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

 ** _How To Seduce A Man:_**

 _Method 1 of 3: Try a More Subtle Method_

 _ **Make plenty of eye contact.** You know immediately when a man is aroused, but it's harder for men to tell if a woman is interested in sex. Use eye contact and facial expressions to communicate the fact that you want him._

Well, he could always rely on Sherlock's overly keen observation skills for that, couldn't he?

Although very straightforward, John did not consider it very do-able at the least, but he obviously wasn't going to look up Cosmopolitan or any other women's magazines for love advice, and wikiHow seemed somewhat. . . neutral and lingerie-free in its advice. He trusted Sherlock to pick up on his vibe, being the perceptive man that he was.

So. . .

The next day, he went to the sofa, where Sherlock was seated, reading the paper, and stared at him. Till Sherlock was forced to put down the paper and stare back.

 _It's been a month. I just want to have sex with you like before. I want to have sex with you. Hot, hot crazy sex_ , John was trying to think inside, hoping that the thought would somehow show up on his face. Of his needs. Of just how deprived he was.

On the outside, it did feel so, so weird. That wikiHow illustration along with the piece of advice did not help at all.

After a long, long time, Sherlock opened his mouth, "I thought I was the one who did that."

It was later that night that John remembered that it was a 'try a subtler approach' advice.

* * *

That evening, John and Sherlock went down to NSY following Lestrade's progress on having found about Elena Smith's family. Turned out, she was a widow living with her son in Lower Burke Street, and that she had no friends in or near Brixton.

"Where her body turned up," Sherlock whispered when John couldn't remember what Brixton had to do with the case.

"Where's the son now?" John asked to a pale Lestrade surrounded by mountains of paperwork.

"We asked the neighbours. They don't know much. But he's quite the traveller."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Lestrade got up with a tired sigh; and for a moment, John was forced to remember that they were almost the same age, with Lestrade approaching fifty seven the next month. His record with Sherlock hadn't been very conducive to promotions during his fairly long career.

He went over to a box, and opened it up to reveal various postcards: from Hawaii, Brazil to Indonesia and even distant places like Siberia and Australia, all addressed to Elena Smith of 13, Lower Burke Street.

"We searched her place, got these, and tons of books on microbiology and such."

Sherlock's face lit up, "Traveller and microbiology. Interesting."

"So," Lestrade folded his arms, as if that should have told Sherlock everything they needed to file charges, "Any guesses?"

"Not my nature to guess," Sherlock growled.

"Come on, give me something. I'm this close to closing the case, and I'm gonna have to make a public statement tomorrow."

"Well you should've waited longer."

Lestrade put his arms up, "Okay, I give up. What are you going to do about the case?"

"I'm . . . going to let it rest. Let the events unfold. Look into that robbery you were interesting me in. Barely a thrill."

"What?! What if another body turns up?"

"It won't if you keep Tito under police protection."

Lestrade looked appalled, "I'm not providing Tito Sanchez police protection! He's mafia, a big-time criminal. What—what will I say to the public?! That we're protecting criminals now, on your word?"

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, "Pentonville's not a problem, I'm sure."

"Okay, what if another body _apart_ from Tito's comes up?!"

John stepped in to intervene, "Okay, okay, calm down. All the victims were killed by someone close to them, mostly family member, or lovers. It's possible that the boy killed his mother. . ."

"It does not fit!" Sherlock insisted, "The first three victims and the last victim have everything in common. This woman's murder doesn't make sense in this perfect arrangement."

"Sherlock, all of them have confessed to killing these people, and the forensics support the facts. I have to make a statement!"

"Well, what you have to do is to protect Tito Sanchez from being killed," Sherlock said angrily.

"His mother. . ."

"He's still in danger! And you'll regret not listening to me when you've got a sixth body, Lestrade!"

John just stared at Sherlock in dismay, which only aggravated Sherlock's bad mood, "And stop doing that staring thing!"

With that, and a dramatic swoosh of his coat, Sherlock was out. Lestrade looked at John miserably.

"I'll. . . I'll just go after him."

By the time John stepped out of the NSY building, Sherlock was gone.

* * *

 _ **2\. Help him relax.** __Stress can be a big distraction that keeps him from getting in the mood. Make his favourite dinner, give him a relaxing massage or prepare a bubble bath for two. When he feels more relaxed, he's more likely to respond sexually._

 _Three days later:_

Since the end of another case meant eating out, instead of a hot, home-cooked meal, and there wasn't enough space for a bubble bath for two, John decided to go for the relaxing massage, something he was pretty good at. After cases, the crash that the two had had enough spark to send the them straight into the bedroom, hot and messy, but as of late, Sherlock tended to ditch John right before they left for home. And even if he came back, he just grabbed some leftovers and ate himself to sleep. Even after all that dinner.

And this time, John was having none of it. Sherlock was coming back home, to shake off that exhaustion, and this time, John would lock the door, if needed. Or chain him to the bed—only if the worst were to happen—and have his way. Sherlock wouldn't mind, would he?

The start was good. John had eventually got the hang of the good sort of eye contact and soon they were making out. No exploring hands, just really, really chaste make-out, almost like strategy, but unhurried. Slow and good. Relaxed. Just like the advice.

Sherlock chuckled as John kissed his ear lobe and lightly sucked on it. Kissed his neck as he kicked off his shoes and his gloves. Maybe if he could get his husband's libido racing by this, then he'd consider giving the Wiki article a 3-star rating.

"Ooh, what's this?" Sherlock kissed him again as John eased him out of his jacket and seated him on the chair.

"I bet you're tired," John tried whispering in his ear like those women did in the movies, even if it sometimes just felt odd. But, heck, anything for Sherlock, "so I thought a massage would help."

He felt Sherlock shrugging his approval, felt him smile against his cheek.

Slowly, he eased Sherlock out of his shirt, careful not to tear off any buttons. Sherlock was responsive, it seemed everything was going well. He whispered all those naughty things in John's ear, the ones he used to say all the time to seduce him. John had never been as good with words as Sherlock, but he could feel his hands working the magic, and Sherlock's resistance wearing off. He massaged his back, his shoulders all the while peppering his neck with tender kisses. He began massaging his scalp, inhaling that familiar musky scent of him, and his stiff muscles, feeling somewhat proud.

Until, he heard a soft snore that indicated that Sherlock had nodded off. To sleep. Deeper than usual.

John instantly withdrew his hands and looked at him, thoroughly irritated. Poked him in the arm. Slapped his chest, hoping he'd wake up like he always did.

"Wake up!" he demanded childishly. Sherlock stubbornly remained asleep.

Poor old guy was just probably too tired.

It was only after half a minute of contemplation that he decided that their massage session was over.

In the morning, when Sherlock complained of sore muscles from a night's sleep on the chair, John made no sound, not even a mention of a second shot at massage.

* * *

 _ **3\. Get out your old photos.** __Remember the time when you were first in love, before life's other responsibilities caught up with you. Sharing photos can create a feeling of tenderness and nostalgia and could rekindle the flame in your relationship._

Excellent. They _had_ photos.

Those photos were from such a long time ago. Before The Fall, before everything. And then after. They were, indeed, so young back then.

But John thought it was a weird idea. Besides, this was Sherlock. If he couldn't get him to settle for sex, what chance did a couple of stag party and wedding photos at the registrar's office have?

Mycroft had lost Sherlock's ring. That was a fun occasion, though. There even was a photograph of the search that followed. And they, of course, had some old case-related photos in that album, the good ones. That would cheer Sherlock up.

When Sherlock turned up at noon, he found John sitting on the floor with an album sparsely filled with photos.

"Why are you looking up the Han Zhou cipher again?" he said, hanging his coat by the hook.

John shrugged, "Just. . . looking at our old photos."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Do I need to call the doctor? Or are you going to insist on writing your own medicine?"

John smiled, "I'm fine. Join me?"

"Nothing else to do."

It was nice, once in a while, to listen while Sherlock simply talked, even if John couldn't remember or at times even understand what he said. Holmes was a reserved man, but oh, he could talk. A lot. When it came to cases. They laughed together, at Kenny Prince's photos, and that of his cat, and of how he had been hitting on John. . . and John could feel Sherlock coming closer, not just physically. It had been so long since they had just. . . talked about nothing in particular. Not that any of them liked talking about nothing, but it did feel good, once you got used to each other in a marriage with no third member and could care less.

And then John turned the page, and out came a bunch of articles. From tabloids. With Sherlock's photo. With Sherlock in that hat photo.

And Sherlock went from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde, "I _hate_ that hat!"

And stormed off before John could say another word.

* * *

 _A few days later:_

The journey to Lower Burke Street passed without any excitement that filled the days preceding. Sherlock had not informed Lestrade of their little plan, and just like since the last twenty years, John had expressed silent disapproval at that, but had nevertheless taken their rarely-used car out for an exercise.

As of late, Sherlock had turned very vocal about things John had never thought he'd give a damn about. A week before, Sherlock had strongly reacted to a whaling news report, to the point of even writing an email to BBC about it. Three days ago, Sherlock had surprised John by giving way 50 quid to every homeless on their way to the court. At that point, John had thought it was an investment of sorts for future favours, but when he saw Sherlock giving 50 to even a blind girl at Blackfriars, he realised that it was not so.

But then, that was one of the best things about living with Sherlock. He could never predict exactly what was going on in his spouse's mind.

But today was a quiet-Sherlock day, for Sherlock was always quiet and brooding on his way to the crime scene, a habit John had accommodated by being quiet himself, to the point of Sherlock even telling him once what a valuable gift it was. And so, John spoke not a word till their vehicle stopped a few yards from their destination.

"Here we are."

Lower Burke Street was a line of fine houses lying in the vague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington. Number 13 was the dullest of all the little abodes. It was obvious that it had been vacant for weeks, and that no one had noticed the absence of its late owner. The curtains in the windows of only the right wing were drawn. Weeds grew wild in the little yard, dead leaves were littered upon the steps that led to the front door. There was a heap of uncollected newspapers by the front step.

John slung the backpack containing the evidence that Lestrade had supplied them with, and the two of them set towards exploring the house. The front door bore signs of having been opened by force, and John recalled that Lestrade and his team had already been here. But Sherlock led him to the more inconspicuous left wing.

They walked around the porch, hoping to find any side entrances, only to find the back door into the house, and Sherlock kneeled down to work the lock open. John felt the ever-present urge to conceal Sherlock from the sight of anyone unwelcome.

"Twenty years and you're still not used to this," Sherlock spoke, with the bonus of an all-suffering sigh.

"Same to you," John hissed back.

The lock clicked open and they made their way in. The insides of the house were dark, the white flowery curtains being drawn across. John eyed a picture on the mantelpiece: it was that of an old woman—Elena, obviously—and of a young man, serious, academic looking, black-frame glasses with a balding skull, not-so-generous amount of blond hair and ringed, sullen dark eyes that only resembled Elena's in shape.

"The son, obviously," Sherlock added from behind him. John sucked in a breath—he had forgotten about Sherlock's presence in the silence of the house.

John examined him closely. The eyes, he discovered, were not really dark. They were sort of grey—as were Elena's—but they seemed dark, nevertheless. The eyelashes, the dark circles under his eyes gave him a grim appearance, like he was suffering from some chronic disease that had drained the spirit of life from him.

"Yeah, probably the son," he spoke, just for the sake of speech.

Sherlock had not waited for John. He had, as he could make out, migrated upstairs. John contented himself with wandering about in the deceased lady's niche; the Bible, the knitting, the flowers, the glasses, false teeth. He put his gloves on before going through her belongings.

It seemed that the son loved her terribly much. The room was full of little trinkets that she fussed over a lot, John could tell. Under the dining table glass, there were many, many birthday cards, Mother's day cards, and general correspondence in very affectionate words, both ways. Lestrade had collected only some of the postcards, and now John drew all of them out to arrange them according to their dates.

 _23/07/2015: Santa Fe_  
 _25/06/2015: Jakarta_  
 _20/05/2015: Laos_  
 _19/04/2015: Laos_  
21/03/2015: Dalian  
17/02/2015: Honolulu

And began to see a connection. The letters were sent roughly once a month near 17th, taking in account the delay between arrival and posting.

John checked the date. It was well past a month since the last letter. He had checked the mailbox on his way in; there was only an unopened cooking magazine. Upon searching more thoroughly, he concluded that the letter had not reached here. Or had not been posted at all.

His nerves tingled with anticipation, feeling he had stumbled upon something instrumental. Sherlock had been partially right; there was a sixth body somewhere, waiting to be discovered, but it wasn't that of Tito Sanchez. It was of Elena's son.

"Sherlock!" he cried out as quietly as he could without sacrificing audibility.

"John," he answered back, "come up here!"

John eyed his discovery, and then decided to join Sherlock upstairs. The son's wing, as it seemed, was upstairs.

Sherlock was waiting for him at the doorstep to what looked like a decent-sized study. The walls were lined with bookshelves, which were filled with numerous huge volumes. Sherlock had pulled out a few, which lay yawning upon the study table.

"His books?"

"Yep," Sherlock nodded, "look at this."

Sherlock had pulled down a few treatises on _Tropical Medicine_ and _The Tapanuli Fever: A Brief History_. On _Ayurvedic Methods in India_ and _Rare Ailments of the East_. John glanced at Sherlock. He knew the look on his face, having seen it so many times.

"You knew you'd find this sort of stuff all along?"

"When Lestrade said that he travelled and his area of interest was microbiology, it was one of the most obvious explanations. And now," he grabbed _Tropical Medicine_ and showed John the page that he had bookmarked. More specifically, he showed John the illustration.

It was that of a little Sumatran girl, barely 5 year old and only in her underwear. Her little body was completely dotted by those rashes that they found on the victims. It was too much of a coincidence. Only the endemic name of the disease was captioned under the photo, along with the indication that the disease was in its last stages, no more details. John hadn't heard or seen or read anything about that before. In the ending stage, as it seemed from the illustration, the rashes looked like a cross between small pox and herpes. . .

"If this," John pointed to the picture, "is in the last stages, then the disease couldn't have killed Elena. Hers were milder, if I remember correctly."

"No. The cause of death was lung puncture and massive internal hemorrhage. Everyone met a violent death."

"Oh," John exclaimed, feeling somewhat stupid for reading too much between the lines, "So the son. . ."

"Knows about these rashes, at the least," Sherlock completed.

John frowned, "Odd. . ."

"Interesting. You were calling me downstairs?"

"Oh yes," John caught up with the abrupt change in the subject, "I, well. . . I found something too."

Sherlock nodded in a non-verbal _lead the way_ fashion.

John showed him the sequence of the letters and their dates, and told Sherlock what he thought. And Sherlock even agreed with John's line of thinking. But even as he explained himself, a lot of things didn't make sense. This Elena woman and her son were apparently unrelated to these two mafia families; they had searched the whole house for an indication of any such thing. And yet, this woman had died in the same fashion as the others, and the son, who too probably was dead somewhere, had books about such diseases.

When Sherlock finally called their little break-in session to an end much sooner than John had expected, and when John started their car, he thought he saw someone in the rear-view mirror, as if looking directly at them from a distance. Blaming it on his imagination and nerves, he glanced at Sherlock, who was counting loads of pennies for some reason and sorting them into different piles according to value.

He decided to get the hell out of there.

* * *

 _ **4\. Ply him with pomegranates.** __Studies show that drinking pomegranate juice can boost a man's sex drive. Make a pitcher of pomegranate margaritas or some pomegranate lemonade for the teetotaller._

 _Are you serious?_ Lizard-brain-John thought.

 _Calm down,_ ox-brain-John thought, _It's like Sherlock. A scientific approach wouldn't hurt, would it?_

Besides, it was just a drink. Just the one. Or a couple. Margaritas didn't sound that bad.

This time, John ensured that it wasn't a post-case scenario. He worked the night shift on Saturday, so they had gone out in the afternoon to only give a statement, No excitement, no rush, just a man who tried to kill Sherlock in court, and who also happened to be the convict's lawyer. By the time they were back, the sun had set, Sherlock was in a mixed mood and was interesting John in the subtler details of the case which he had missed.

John, meanwhile, took advantage of the distraction, and took out two wine glasses and began garnishing the rim, all margarita salt and lime wedges while Sherlock went on and on and on about how the new forensics guy knew nothing and made Anderson look smart and how he thought that Donovan should've been promoted instead of the guy who now worked alongside Lestrade (which, frankly, came as a surprise to John). He had prepared the cocktail beforehand, and now just poured them into their glasses with some ice cubes.

And it did taste good, even if too strong for John's liking. Maybe he had got the amount of tequila wrong, but it was good. Sherlock did not go as far as to compliment it, but the look in his eyes and a sweet mute request for another drink was all that John needed to know about just how effective this method was.

Eventually Sherlock did shut up with the talking and start with the kissing. And this time, John did not hold back. He could tell Sherlock was aroused, as if the drink had been an aphrodisiac. Sherlock's kisses were sloppy and uncoordinated, but John did not mind, as long as it was hot and frisky, and as long as Sherlock kept going south with his kisses.

"Bed," John whispered and moaned slowly as they both struggled with taking John's shirt off. The buttons were a heavy task, but they eventually steered through. Sherlock's hot, sweet mouth down his chest, and down and down and, oh, on his navel, dipping his tongue there and sucking and. . .

"Oh God, a little bit down," he ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair as he went down and. . .

John groaned.

And moved away.

Sherlock was bent over, still shaking, while he vomited the contents of his stomach on the floor. After he was done, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked at John miserably.

So much for increasing sex drive.

Or maybe he should've just gone for the lemonade instead.

* * *

 _ **5\. Engage him in a competitive sport.** __Play tennis, race to the top of a mountain or challenge him to some kind of game. The competitive spirit will provide ample opportunity for flirting and will also raise both of your testosterone levels._

That sounded like a good idea to John. It sounded fun, but he had a hunch that it would only tire Sherlock more. After all, he did get tired so easily as of late.

And even if he could manage a day off clinic, he wasn't sure if he could get Sherlock to climb some mountain with him. Plus, Sherlock wasn't into the sports that John was. The only ones that Sherlock knew were fighting games, fencing, boxing, _jujitsu_ and such, and John wasn't in the mood of sacrificing his bones to get Sherlock into bed.

Sherlock's unprecedented tiredness made John more worried. He knew that they were not as young, but that did not mean that they could not have sex even once a month. And he had ruled infidelity out. Sherlock wasn't going to go to the trouble of hiding an affair.

But there was no way to get it out of Sherlock, and John wasn't sure talking about it would make things any clearer, so he just decided to go with the article in the hope that Sherlock would respond, even if a bit. After all, it had a good rating.

The opportunity came in the form of a street chase through Hounslow, after a serial killer that they had caught unawares while in the midst of killing his to-be victim. They chased him several blocks before they realised that while they had been chasing the killer, the killer's accomplice had been chasing them all along, for they heard a gunshot behind them.

And the bullet struck Sherlock, his thigh, promptly ending the chase. John tried shooting in the dark behind him, from where he had heard the gun shot, but to no avail. That did not matter anymore; they had to get out for there or risk a Wild West encounter with the shooter.

"You're going to be okay," John breathed, resisting the temptation to pursue and load all the bullets into the shooter's brain. He propped Sherlock up against his shoulder, "Can you walk?"

"I can keep up."

Soon they were running down a fire escape at half the speed, with echoes of bullets after them. John was doing most of the running, his and Sherlock's, and Sherlock was texting with one hand. John couldn't hear the sounds of boots pounding them owing to the thundering of his own heart. Sherlock was slowing down, and John was doing all he could to keep up.

They ran into a side door, down a corner, and down to an dark alley. Sherlock was panting; he seemed like he wanted to just give up and succumb to his injuries, but John pushed on. He remembered Afghanistan, about how he had been shot while helping a comrade in the exact same way in the exact same situation, and that thought pushed him on.

He wasn't going to get shot again.

"In there," Sherlock panted, pointing at what seemed like a dead end. As they got closer, the wall began looking more like a obscure side door. Thanking God, John pulled open the door and broke into what looked like an abandoned flat, their temporary sanctuary.

John set Sherlock carefully down on the floor and secured the door behind him, only to bang his fists against it in frustration, "Damn it, we lost him!"

"Texted Lestrade," Sherlock's breathing got heavier, "I know the safehouse the killer would go to. I found the same soil at all crime scenes, from his boots."

The warmth and joy that bloomed in John's chest was familiar. Sherlock gave him a quick smile and John felt something stuck in his throat. Oh, how he loved this man.

"Let me see that."

Sherlock stuck his leg out, wincing at the pain. The bleeding was superficial; the bullet had only grazed past the now-burnt skin, thankfully.

"Have you told him to come get us?"

"Yes," Sherlock closed his eyes for a bit. "I think we've shaken the shooter off."

"Hmm," John got up, "let's get you stitched up then."

As John waited in the lobby of the clinic, he recalled the advice that the website gave him.

 _Ample opportunity to flirt, my foot,_ he thought.

* * *

 _Three days later:_

Where the last few weeks had been about practically eating anything that was in Sherlock's line of sight, John could honestly say that he was glad to have Sherlock not eating again, or to have him as normal as he could be. Which was pretty rare these days. One day, he had found Sherlock in midst of his new hobby, collecting coins and sorting them into huge piles while humming to himself like a teenage girl, or practising dissection in the kitchen, in spite of John having shouted at him for it.

But when, one day, John came home early from clinic, a disturbing moan halted him in his tracks.

John stood still, heart pounding in his chest. He hadn't heard that sound in weeks, had been denied the pleasure of drawing them out from Sherlock till they both couldn't take it anymore.

He stopped tinkering around in the kitchen trying to find something edible and tiptoed towards the bathroom. However old, Sherlock's hearing was still very sharp. The slightest noise could. . .

And then another. Followed by heavy breathing, from the bathroom.

John knew what he was doing was wrong. Sherlock hadn't been expecting him home so early, he certainly did not want to be snooped upon by John while jerking himself off. . . but then, what right did he have?

Suddenly, John was angry. Very angry. That Sherlock would not take sex from him, but would content himself with fucking his own fist. A direct hit to his ego it was. If Sherlock had the guts to tell the Queen of England right on her face that she was far too old to be eating more than one muffin at a time, then he certainly could be straight with John. After all, they were a couple. They were supposed to figure things out together, especially the ones that Sherlock had no experience in.

And he heard the last moan. John had heard it before, he knew it in his bones, the way Sherlock finished himself. Bitterly hurt and angry, he returned to the kitchen, feeling his jaw clenching on its own accord. He did not care when he almost banged the kettle on the stove, or when he put down the saucer on the table with so much force that it almost cracked under the impact. He tore open the bread, and took out the jam, spreading a voluminous amount of it across the slices.

And then Sherlock sauntered into the kitchen, like there was nothing wrong, his skin flushed and moist, only a towel around his slim hips.

"Oh, you're back early," he said rhetorically.

After John managed to get a grip on himself, he looked at Sherlock. Those silver eyes had no notion of shame, or penitence. They were red bright, feverish, unapologetic. He kept the knife down on the counter. He now understood, felt the rage of those who took a life to sate their own fury.

He took a deep breath.

"Yes I am."

The kettle whistled.

"Say John," he took an apple and bit into it nonchalantly, "what do you think about bees?"

John smiled humourlessly, "Bees?"

"Yes. D'you have any change in your pocket?"

The abrupt change in subject stopped John again, "What?"

"Change in your pocket?"

John turned to look at him. Sherlock was watching him, looking harried. John was surprised at this change in his otherwise careless attitude.

"Yes."

"Any coins?"

"A few."

"How many?"

"Ten quid or so, in total."

Sherlock groaned, "Ah, too less! A shame. But it's alright, all is just right. Take them out now."

John had, by now, forgotten all his anger.

"Come on, take 'em out! Don't be shy."

It was raving insanity, but John reluctantly took all the pennies out. Sherlock examined them with a zeal he cared to bestow only upon the dead bodies at the crime scene. Sherlock sorted them into two neat piles and handed John one pile.

"Here's the good pennies, keep them in your left pocket. . . oh no, no, not like that, yes, yes, yes. You'd have made a great perfectionist. And these," he handed a now-bewildered John the other pile, "This are the bad coins. You'll place them exactly in the way you placed the first pile, but now in your right pocket. Good, and now I'll change into something decent."

With that, he stood up and swept off towards their bedroom, leaving John blinking, unable to process what had just happened. But whatever Sherlock did, it did soothe his anger, and for a moment, John wondered whether Sherlock had manipulated him into forgetting about it.

A moment later he decided that, no, Sherlock hadn't thought of it like that.

However, the question still remained. As the night crept on, John remained awake in bed, next to a soundly sleeping Sherlock, wondering if maybe, just maybe, if he wasn't doing something that he had been doing to keep Sherlock's interest. Started wondering if their partnership was going to endure till death. After all, Sherlock had talked of retirement. He envisioned a future together, and John knew how invested Sherlock was. . . going by the way he had started to cut down on his useless expenses (and with his penny-counting), but John could not even think of a retirement with such a messy state of affairs.

If he tried just more, just enough. . . maybe. . . maybe not.

Time to turn up the seduction by a notch.

* * *

 **Have you guessed now which ACD case this is? Yes? Great, treat yourself to a cookie!**

 **No? Well, it'll all be clearer in the next chapter. And then you'll have a aha! moment and see the clues planted. Seriously, I've even copied one or two dialogues.**


End file.
